


Double, Double

by ThirthFloor



Series: Some Adventures - Nonlinear or So [6]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Creature Geralt I guess??, Creature Jaskier | Dandelion, Dopplers (The Witcher), Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Established Relationship, Geralt does things that are cringe, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion Has Feelings, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, M/M, Mentioned Roach (The Witcher), Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-27
Updated: 2020-05-27
Packaged: 2021-03-02 20:54:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24413179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThirthFloor/pseuds/ThirthFloor
Summary: Only after they are separated does Geralt learn that he is travelling with a Doppler version of Jaskier, and not the real one. The Doppler was sent to kill him, and the Witcher learns that another is with his Bard.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Some Adventures - Nonlinear or So [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1711828
Comments: 14
Kudos: 216





	Double, Double

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry this took so long to get out!! I have been having a dreadful few weeks with AP Testing, and just mad writer's block... Thank you for your patience!! 
> 
> This one in particular is a gift for my dear friend Em, who I forced into the Witcher fandom, and now we both thrive and die in it together. She requested this prompt, and I had no idea what to do with it, and here we are!
> 
> And wow, this is my 20th published fic here on AO3!! Whoo!!

The Witcher suspected that he was being accompanied by a Doppler in a moment at seat by the fire, when unexpectedly, Geralt’s eyes served him better than his sense of smell. And what he had was not a sharper perception, but merely a new observation: the lack thereof an ordinary glint from silver rings on the Bard’s fingers as he absently strummed his lute. His hands remained bare, gliding over the strings as a lilting tone rose and was carried into the air by the drifting warmth of the flames. Geralt watched them move with a new intensity, unsettled and edged.

He hadn’t noticed it when Jaskier came down from the upper floor of the inn to meet the Witcher this morning. As he was sleeping in, Geralt had abandoned the Bard in favour of breakfast, but still had the sense to wait patiently and throw him an apple when he emerged. It was something he  _ should _ have noticed, the lack of the damned rings that always were laid neatly on the bedside table in their room, but it had slipped his attention as something negligent and unimportant. Now, it seemed to be a vital deficiency of dress.

“What are you looking at, Geralt?” Jaskier’s voice remained as it normally sounded, the tone and delivery identical. But now it prickled at the Witcher’s ears, the sense searching for a known oddity in the cadence.

Snorting quietly in response, Geralt wondered if perhaps the Bard was acting strange for another reason. He was more prone to mood swings, distractions, absences… Perhaps this was just one of these times. But he was nearly sure of his conclusion by a stated fact. “You’re not wearing your rings.”

“We’re up in the mountains, the altitude got to my hands… They felt puffy. So, I took the rings off.” He smirked, lips curling in that familiar way that was inexplicably  _ Jaskier _ … and yet Geralt was certain that something was different. Even being a traveler all his life, changes in familiar things, things he  _ liked _ , was always unwelcome. “Why, are you looking for something in particular?”

“Hm.” The Witcher closed his mouth and huffed heavily through his nose, turning his attention back to the warm embers beneath the fire. 

There was shuffling as Jaskier got up from where he was sitting, walking lightly over the leaves on the forest floor to stand beside Geralt. The latter remained turned away. “Is everything alright, Geralt? You’re acting moody. Well, moodier than usual. Broody, then, I guess would be the best way to put it.” He waited for a response, then sighed softly as gentle fingers came to rest on the Witcher’s chin, turning his face so that their eyes would meet. “You know you can tell me anything, don’t you?”

That  _ felt _ like Jaskier. Everything he said was delivered perfectly, thoughtfully and prodding for his focus and attention, as it so usually did. Every touch and movement carried that graceful clumsiness, characteristic but precise. And those eyes… They swam deep like the ocean they resembled, affection and worry, care and all else within them. Geralt had come to a conclusion, an idea that something was wrong about the Bard. He did not like to consider that he himself was incorrect.

Geralt knew that he fell short of the complexities that Jaskier presented; he felt them the same but he did not demonstrate them in kind. And even now, he felt guilty for his doubt. It felt wrong to look at Jaskier and think there was something  _ off _ . He was entitled to be the enigma he was, always changing and adapting and keeping Geralt on his toes. Jaskier was  _ exciting _ , for a human, and something sour gnawed at the Witcher when he jumped at the reasoning to think it something ill. 

If the Bard was someone he cared so much for, then he cared for him for who he was. Geralt knew that. He knew that the changes would be missed, the man would not be the same without them; and yet he fixated on something as simple as the absence of the rings, as if it was a sign of some foreboding difference.

“Nothing’s wrong. It’s late, and we’ve got far to go. You should get some rest while you can.” The Witcher averted his eyes, still staring at the bare hand he could see. The frown on his face lingered.

The expression was mirrored on the Bard when instead he crouched to be at eye level once again. “I don’t like seeing you like this, you know. There’s a difference in your regular grumpy attitude, and then when you feel bad about something, or when something’s off. Like when you can’t sleep. You get uncomfortable, and it makes you feel small.” His frown turned sympathetic, soft as Jaskier placed a hand on his knee. “I don’t want you to feel small and vulnerable unless it’s because you’re curled up in my arms from making love too beautifully, alright Geralt?” A grin spread on his face along with a blush, as often did when he jested about their intimacy. 

Geralt snorted again and rolled his eyes, but could not fight the swell of affection he felt rise in his own chest. He tried to tell himself that he had been overthinking things, that it was fine to concede and relax. He was with Jaskier, and Jaskier was with him. This was fine. They were fine. He took the Bard’s chin in his own hand this time, thumb pressing gently over his bottom lip before it was replaced in a kiss. A kiss to give up control.

“Feeling better, then?” Jaskier mumbled, a smile dancing even as he spoke against Geralt’s lips.

“Hm. Kind of.”

~

The Doppler that took the form of Geralt sat at the corner of a new inn, a mug of ale sitting before it on the table. It watched the Bard from across the room, tracking his movements as he twirled and spun in tempo with the tune of his lute. Faultless golden eyes swept to follow with something close to affection in them.

It was a complex feeling, always was, to take the place of another and suddenly be aware of the most intimate of feelings and draws. The Doppler did not expect this reserve from the Witcher; it was known what he was, a hunter without emotion, a man without humanity… But although muffled, the Doppler still recognised his impulses. And they were most apparent in the presence of this Bard, colourful and bright and  _ beautiful _ Jaskier…

The Doppler resigned it to ethical observation, gaze not wandering and unpleasantries staying far from its train of thought. It took effort at times, when Jaskier would look back at it and wink and sway his hips in  _ that _ way. In return, the Doppler would nod and tip its mug in just enough of an acknowledgement, but would defy the natural senses of the man whose body it occupied, instead taking time for meditation.

Some miles off, it knew the real Geralt of Rivia was being escorted to a remote location in the forest, off the path that would have led to this town in the South where Roach awaited, having been left behind while the pair had gone to the mountains for a contract. The staggered departures put the faux pairs distant from each other, enough to get the Witcher alone and picked off. Truly, they had not been anticipating that he had a companion, but merely a human, their plan was easily molded to accommodate, if not benefited for the cause.

And yet, on this Doppler’s end, it was struggling. Taking on the form of the Witcher was a challenge not anticipated, and it fought to keep down urges and inclinations, and to unearth others. Despite the complications of his work and his life, the Witcher seemed to have very firm lines of morality… and something about watching the Bard, knowing their intimacy, and knowing itself as an imposter, the Doppler succumbed to the guilt that attacked it, like the body was fighting off a disease. He felt dirty in the Witcher’s skin, and frowned effortlessly. 

Grunting and hunching its shoulders to face away from the open room, the Doppler tried not to focus on the Bard, still at work in the tavern. He would have to find a way to get rid of him, and fast - easily and efficiently. But the mere idea of killing him, of disposing of him in a way that physically hurt him, made the creature sick to its stomach. It did not know whether that was its own intuition, or that of the Witcher’s, but he assumed the latter. It and its partner had been hired for assassination missions before, on targets of much less coin value and threat. It determined that the reluctance to carry out an execution unpaid for and this irresistible, overpowering urge to keep the Bard safe… that was what coupled together to stir this disgust in its belly, churning and desperate. 

The Witcher may be eliminated, he may be disposed of in the forest, a nameless end to a man not in want of the name; but the Doppler could not allow such an end to beseech this Bard, who sang of spring and love and looked like the flowers and sunshine himself. The Doppler saw… When he looked at the man, he had insight to the tenderness the Witcher felt. He had an innate desire to protect him, even if that came at the hand of misunderstanding.

It drew the conclusion that the easiest way to solve this was one route the Witcher had often taken. Leaving would be the most painless of solutions; simply departing in the night while the Bard was asleep, or excusing himself to take on a contract and leaving it at that… Those were common, those had been done before. Those would work, and it could leave without a sound.

It knew that the Bard never expected the Witcher to return when he left; it could be felt in the stirring that came when the idea crossed its mind. There would be no need for a real goodbye with a promise of return, and the Witcher who died in the woods would be vanished without a fuss or a stir.

And yet… It was sad, that the one who would be there to wait for him would assume he would never return. Leaving the Bard was never intentional, always circumstantial, and it seemed now a more than appropriate circumstance to apply the action to. He would wait, and wait, and eventually grow icy at the thought; bitter at the memory sorrowful in his nostalgia… but he would be living, he would be safe, and there was a chance that he would move on. The Doppler saw that as a better solution.

Without more focus put to it, the creature was shaken from its thoughts when the Bard sat down on the bench beside it heavily, smiling and smelling clearly of drink. He leaned into who he thought was the Witcher, lute still clasped in his hands but of no use now, a mere prop as he retired for the evening.

“Ready to head up then, Geralt my dear? It’s been a long night…” It did not help that the Bard’s voice sounded in lilts, words carried like the songs from his tongue in a tender pull as he spoke to the man his affections lie with. “I know you’ve been mentioning having time to ourselves as of late.”

_ Oh, fuck. _ “I meant time to ourselves, individually. I need… rest.” It nudged Jaskier up by the shoulder, causing his shoulders to loll briefly before righting himself. The Bard, with a disappointed frown on his face of which he attempted to hide, complied and scooted off the bench, rising to his feet with a slight stagger.

Instinctively, the Doppler reached out to steady him, one firm hand gripping his upper arm. It stared, almost disbelieving, that the motion had come so easily. But just as easily then, it drew its hand back and rose to its own feet, passing a perplexed Jaskier on its way to the rooms.

As expected, the Bard trailed behind it, his voice following as well. “I don’t remember you mentioning that it had to be  _ alone _ , and now that’s not fair, is it? Our room is booked  _ together _ , and there’s  _ one _ bed, come now we’re going to have to cuddle either way,  _ Geralt _ …” When the Doppler did not stop until they reached their room, Jaskier huffed and crossed his arms. “I feel entitled to at least  _ some _ affection from my extremely pensive Witcher man. I let you off with enough, the least you could do is let me sit  _ with _ you while you look off in dreadful silence.” And as if to prove a point, he furrowed his brow and fixated on a point in the distance in mimicry of thought.

“You are exhausting, that is why I mean  _ alone _ .” The Doppler snorted slightly in a huff, finding the snark easy to conjure as it began to remove the layers of leather armour from the body it bore. “The south awaits, and I would like rest before then.” Any effort to get the Bard to follow suit, to sleep as well so that it might slip out in the night, came in the form of blunt reasoning.

“That’s precisely  _ why _ you should let me continue on. Geralt…” Jaskier whined softly, his arms coming to rest around the Doppler’s waist, hugging it from behind. It tensed. “If I exhaust you so, then you will sleep better? It’s simple logic, even you should be able to get that through your thickly handsome skull… Come on,  _ Geralt _ …”

“Not that kind of rest.” Discomfort coursed through the Doppler’s borrowed body, and he turned to shrug the Bard off it, to free itself from his embrace. It did not miss the pout, the rejection that swam across his features. “Real rest. Sleep. Not… this. Not now.”

_ Well, at least he would be alive. Disappointed or not, it was preferable to the alternative that the real Witcher faced in the woods to the north. _

And still, the slow heart inside its chest clenched, sore and sorrowful, when that expression of hurt lingered once more on the Bard’s face. It knew it was being cruel, and there would be more to come when the sweet Bard would awake in the morning to a cold bed and not a word of his lover… But the Doppler wouldn’t have to be there to face it then. Now, it had to stare him in his lovely, deep and yearning blue eyes, and know what it was doing. But in the morning, when it was on its way with a more subtle face, it could disappear. It could become obsolete, and vanish from responsibility.

“Okay.” Jaskier finally conceded, shrugging off his doublet and kicking off his shoes. They were scuffed and dirty, and the Doppler felt an urge to do some good and buy some new ones… It would leave the Witcher’s coin purse, however light, as well as enough of his belongings as not to remain suspicious. It might help then.

There was not much it could do, so it acted on the instinct of the dead man’s body it possessed, and prepared itself for feigning sleep.

~

The smell from the kill was what disturbed Geralt the most, seeping into his clothing, dripping from his blade, seeming to find home in the very pores of his skin. Alert, the surge of adrenaline lingering and throbbing, his senses were still at their peak; all he could do was scrunch his nose and scowl deeply, holding his breath to lessen the stench. He packed the bedroll quickly, without distraction, slinging its strap over his shoulder. The moon remained high in the sky, silver rays piercing down through the spaces in the canopy and accenting on the shiny flesh of the creature at the base of the tree.

Moments before, it had been Jaskier. Well,  _ looked _ like him. And sounded like him and spoken like him, felt like him and cried like him. Attempted to carry out its impossible task, the challenge of slaying a Witcher with his own blade; while darker than the pursuits Jaskier sought, the Doppler had thrown itself into the trial with the same determination that had never failed the Bard and his skill. Identical in all brutal, painful forms that reminded the Witcher of exactly why it was imperative to disregard emotion.

But he always was at fault in his training when with Jaskier, letting feelings through carefully. Sometimes it got the best of him, demonstrated when he had fallen asleep that night even as a sense of unease lie with him, hoping that something was only in the air. And when he had awoken to his own steel blade at his throat, he saw clearly his mistake.

Geralt’s strides were swift, paced and determined, following an instinctual compass to the south. Roach was waiting at the inn he and the Bard had left only days before, waiting for them to return from the mountains where she could not follow. Until he could get there, until he could get the smell of a faux Jaskier’s death out of his nose, out of his head, and replace it with the scent of flowers and oils and the  _ life  _ and  _ safety _ Jaskier really was… He would not take another path. He walked straight south.

Dopplers were innately peaceful, non-confrontational creatures, but easily hired to carry out filthy tasks. If the one that lie dead behind him had told the truth while Geralt’s silver blade rested deep in its chest, it was not far-fetched to believe that the Doppler with Jaskier intended to act on the same orders. If there even was another Doppler with him… If it hadn’t been done already…

Geralt broke into a run, his boots pounding against the compact dirt of the winding road in the mountainous woods. His breath came heavy, but steady and deep as he raced in the night, raced against lurking fears and towards  _ him _ : towards Jaskier.

Doubt - the most basic and mundane form of fear, the fear of being wrong - did not sit well with the Witcher, and yet he could not deny it as he thought back on what he had done. The form the body took once it had been slain revealed it to be the mushy, formless husk of a Doppler, and yet the scent of Jaskier still clung to him like a sin. There was nothing to regret, nothing to worry in that regard… The real Jaskier could yet still be alive, if Geralt hurried.

Still, he would not soon leave behind the visions of the measures he went to ensure he had the information he needed. That the blood on his blade mirrored that which would look like Jaskier’s, should he ever be wounded so deeply. Not soon would he forget the look on the Doppler’s face as it wore the Bard’s own… Those brows creased and upturned, a grimace so tight it seemed to be a smile, blue eyes like water glassed by salty tears… Not soon would Geralt be able to sleep without hearing the sounds of gasps, light coughs and wheezes, as words were forced from its tarnished throat; a throat that, had it belonged to the Bard, would not be capable again of singing songs and chorusing notes.

Not soon would Geralt be able to get the image of Jaskier dying before him from his mind, from his memory, from the scent that thrived from the danger. Not soon would the Witcher be able to look at his own hands, which had only killed a beast - yet they accused of something far more sinister, something he would never have wanted to imagine, and yet was forced to witness.

And so, Geralt of Rivia ran from the scene of the hunt, to see that his wrongs could still be righted - that his senses had not failed him yet, twisted his perception in a false conjuration. He ran to see that his Bard could be safe, when the creature that had taken his place for only a day lie dead in an unmarked, beastly forest mound.

~

“Oh, Witcher, back again? I didn’t even see you go out.” The innkeeper brushed past Geralt, a cloth in hand as he went to clear the surface of a newly empty table. The Witcher grunted in response, taking in his surroundings swiftly and paying little regard to the man whom he did not recognize.

He took a whiff of the air, subtle but deeply in search of clarity. The stairs to the upper levels were exposed at the far end of the room, and he made haste to them with assured strides.

He followed the scent of chamomile and lavender, of song and storytelling that had conditioned itself only to be associated with the Bard. He tracked it until it brought him before the second door to the end of the hall, voices now flooding his ears as he focused on the new sense.

“You know, I’m quite used to you being all secretive and  _ mysterious _ about where we go and what we do, you know, with the sordid business you operate… But it would be helpful if you gave me a clue in order for me to have an expectation of the clientele I will be facing. Not everyone will be sold on your charm and good looks, I happen to be a rare and exciting exception.” Jaskier - the  _ real  _ Jaskier’s - voice was unmistakable as he prodded his audience with inquiries, as he so often did. 

The Bard was particular about knowing what he would be up against; while Geralt prepared for the beasts he would face, the contracts he would accept and the danger he would lie in, Jaskier fretted over the town and its people. He thought of what supplies they could acquire, what events would be necessary in the way of status, what level of nobility they would be facing and how to best earn the favour of the citizens. It was extraordinarily thoughtful, useful in most cases, not that the Witcher would ever admit outright to his companion.

Geralt did not have enough time to truly appreciate this, as the next sound he heard was the gravelly delivery of his  _ own _ voice, responding more lowly than an ordinary human’s ears would have been able to pick up through the door. “I’m not sure, but we will be moving west.”

“That’s all you’re going to give me? Geralt, come on, you’ve been more dry than usual, what’s the matter?” There was a pause, a heavy silence which the real Geralt was tempted to shatter by slamming the door open and off its hinges, but something in that silence made him wait. Jaskier continued quietly, “Are you planning on leaving again? Without… without me? Is that why you’re not telling me where you’re off to?”

There came no response, and Geralt knocked through the door. The handle on the other side crashed deafeningly into the wall it hit, its hinges screaming in protest. Jaskier was seated on the bed, crisscrossed and now scrambling back against the headboard, the stink of fear filling the room. The Bard’s chest rose and fell rapidly, too shallowly for meaningful breath, his blue eyes blown wide. The fear was mingled with confusion, the sensation overwhelming. Geralt took a deep breath of it.

The Doppler - the new one, the partner of the creature whose carcass lay some two dozen miles north in the woods - squared its shoulders and faced the Witcher whose body it mirrored. It appeared to remain calm.

“Geralt, what the  _ fuck _ is going on?” Jaskier squeaked, unsure which one he was speaking to. His gaze darted frantically between the two, his muscles tensed in desire to flee, but knowing not where.

“The other one is dead,” The real Witcher snarled, stalking forward into the room and drawing his blade. The room was far too small for the weapon, but the effect and preparation was in place. “Step away from him.”

To his surprise, the Doppler raised its hands in the air in surrender, nodding sagely and retreating to the far corner of the room, away from the bed and away from the Witcher. When it spoke, its voice carried evenly. “I was not going to hurt the Bard, Witcher. If you would like to keep your weapon raised though, I will not protest.”

“Geralt, what is happening?” Now recognising the man by the door to be  _ his _ Geralt, Jaskier stumbled off the bed and fled to the Witcher’s side, watching the intruder from over his broad, armour-clad shoulders.

Geralt’s golden gaze was fixed on the Bard, only it was the false gaze of the Doppler. It answered instead, “I am not the Witcher. I am a Doppler, I was required to take his form in place of… my partner, but I suppose there’s no point in remaining like this.”

“They were hired to kill me, the other looked like you, Jaskier.” Geralt growled, glowering at the creature before him, the one that bore his face. “I know your kind, Doppler. You do not take pleasure in the kill, only in the ability it gives you to live. Unless you give me reason to relieve your head from your shoulders, I intend to let you go.”

“Then why do you still wield your weapon?” It tilted its head, Geralt’s silvery hair curtaining with the motion.

The Bard turned his own stare at Geralt, and with both inquisitive looks upon him, the Witcher posed his question. He did not know why he wanted the answer. “Even though your species’ disposition is to be non-confrontational, you were hired for a job that required my murder. Why did you not intend to eliminate him as well?” He nodded towards Jaskier, who stiffened beside him. “He is a witness.”

The Doppler paused to measure its words in its head. It spoke slowly. “I had no intent to hurt him, because you do not. You care for him. And with that in mind, I assumed it would be easier to follow your natural inclination to abandon him when he was in danger. You do it so often, I intended to follow suit. He would be sad if you left but… not surprised. With you dead somewhere else, never returning wouldn’t make a difference.” An expression almost akin to remorse appeared on its face, though still shadowed by the Witcher’s structure. “He posed no threat to me aside from understanding too well, it seemed.”

“Natural inclination? Geralt…” Jaskier managed to speak before the Witcher himself could respond, and his upturned gaze was wounded. “I thought you hated leaving me. That’s what you said.”

“I do, Jaskier, I do.”

“He does.”

“Wait, stop.” The Bard shook his head, distress in his tone. “I don’t like this. I’m learning things from the wrong version of you and I thought it  _ was _ you, and now I’m scattered and I’m still trying to recognise that  _ you  _ are you and  _ that _ is not you, just someone who looks and acts and apparently knows much about you?” He moved forward and placed a hand on Geralt’s chest, giving a light squeeze to his pec even through his armour. “See, now that  _ feels _ like you, so how can this… Doppler  _ feel _ like you as well, but also  _ know  _ you, but  _ not be _ you?”

“To clarify a point, I refused any physicality with him,” The Doppler cleared its throat awkwardly, justifying itself to the grunt it earned from the Witcher.

“He - wait,  _ it? _ \- did, which I was very  _ very _ upset about, but now I appreciate it, it would have been very unfortunate to find that I was doing you when it wasn’t  _ you _ , even if it would feel like… wait, huh?” Jaskier groaned and put a hand to his forehead. “I don’t like this. I’m confused. You handle the situation again, Geralt, I’m going to stop trying to make sense of this.”

Geralt nodded briefly, turning his attention hopefully for the last time back to the Doppler. “You weren’t going to hurt him, because you… adopted my mannerisms. And I do not want to?” The end came out as a question, the Witcher himself struggling in slight to understand the bounds of the situation. 

He knew how Dopplers worked, he understood that they adopted  _ all _ ,  _ entire _ features of the form they took, down to the chemical reactions of the brain that guide their memories and temperament. But he struggled to accept the fact that he was being turned inside out by the thing, bared for even himself to be shocked.

“Of course not. You…” The creature looked upward, seeking the words to express its muse. “Well, it’s hard to tell in here. It’s like a dimly lit room. But there’s definitely something, a deep fondness… You would do anything to protect him, and for me in your shoes, that meant leaving as soon as possible.”

“Hm.”

“It’s better at speaking than you, Geralt.” Jaskier offered lightly, to no benefit. It was only an effort to alleviate the Bard from his silent discomfort. “I don’t see the trouble, you killed the bad one… Can’t you just let this one go?”

Geralt wished it was that simple. Every inclination of his pointed to it, but the conditioning of his training stood at the forefront. A Doppler hired on an assassination attempt, regardless of the action it took, remained a threat. And yet… He gazed at the Bard beside him. Who remained safe, sound, despite being in the company of said creature for over a day. 

“Do you believe I should let you go, Doppler?” Geralt brandished his sword one last time, a threatening and dead stare lasting on the face of the creature before him.

“My life currently is in your hands, Witcher. My opinion could be disregarded.”

“Hm.” After no more than a moment, Geralt sheathed his weapon. “I would recommend not returning to your employer. Blend in with the people here, go to a different town. If I have to cross you once more, it may not be as fortunate of an ending.”

~

“Are you still scared?” Jaskier murmured as he traced his fingers in small, wandering circles across Geralt’s chest. 

“No. I wasn’t scared.” The Witcher’s voice came a rumble, matching the Bard’s in gentleness. “I was… Unsettled. There’s a difference.”

“Well when it takes you so long to feel like that, I don’t consider it as such. Still…” Soft lips pressed against the Witcher’s cheek as the weight in the bed dipped momentarily. “I’m safe, I’m alright. Really, all thanks to you.”

Geralt blinked at him, suggesting he continue, and the arm around that slender waist tightened ever so slightly. Never would he have the desire to let go, not permanently if only to hold him in the finite.

“If I had been too late…” He exhaled through the nose, quiet but drawn. “There was nothing much we could have done to avoid the situation, Dopplers… are difficult, naturally. That does not mean I would like it to repeat.”

“Of course not, of course… I understand.” Jaskier nestled in by his side once more, tucked against him with his head resting on his shoulder. “The point was though, it was thanks to you, even when you weren’t there, that nothing much happened. See, that Doppler that was pretending to be you… Beast or not, it recognised that you wouldn’t hurt me. Which admittedly, I always  _ felt  _ I knew, but it had not been said out loud really until today. But I guess… because of your desire to protect me, even when there was a creature pretending to be you, it had to follow suit and do so. That discouraged it from doing anything. See? I’m fine, because of  _ you _ .”

“I never want to hurt anyone. Usually doing so is an… accidental consequence.”

“Exactly. Circumstances aside, you are a  _ good _ man, Geralt.”

Geralt fell quiet; he was always quiet, but now it seemed he stilled entirely. He pondered this as best as he could, weighing the meanings the Bard entailed with the word versus his own definition, his own understanding… Words failed him, his mind going blank from the effort. “I’m not a man.”

Jaskier rolled his eyes, chuckling softly, but enough to be felt against Geralt’s side. “Right, right,  _ Witcher _ . It doesn’t matter, the point is, you are  _ good _ . And I truly adore you for it.” He reached up, rubbing Geralt’s opposite arm comfortingly. “And… What happened in the woods, Geralt? Don’t let it trouble you any longer. You killed a monster, but  _ I  _ am here. I’m safe and I’m here with you, alright? And I will be until things change, but that’s all in the future. There’s no point in worrying ahead  _ or _ for the past. Control  _ now _ , do you see what I’m saying?” He awaited confirmation by pressing a light kiss to the Witcher’s shoulder.

“Hm. Now.” Geralt turned on his side so that he faced his precious Bard, putting both arms around him to secure a close embrace to his chest. He inhaled softly, smelling summer and all things light and alive. Commanding the present, attentive to what was real… He held him now, and Jaskier was real. It was him, delightful and lovely and a wonderful,  _ wonderful _ human. “Now, I would like to sleep.”

“Command it as you will,” Jaskier yawned with a smile, contentedly snuggling quite close, fitting himself perfectly in the learned cosiness of his position alongside the Witcher. “I’ll see you when you wake, my dear.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading!! Leave a comment - I respond to each and every one!!
> 
> I will be honest, I wasn't really feeling this one on ship terms, which is why there is a big lack in my staple flowery language... 
> 
> But throughout writing this, not only did I learn a lot about the painful process of resilience, and carving out at least 200 miserable words a day when I could, but I also find that I explored the characters themselves much more... Since they were separate for a majority of the time, I really had fun establishing small headcanons for Geralt along the way. 
> 
> It's funny how writing your own stuff can really lead you to understand a canonical character so much better... hm. <3


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